Loved and Fond Memories

By John H. Forney
Published on July 1, 1986
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Bellwood, Nebraska

Over the years I have wanted to write a story and just never got
to it. I am 57 years old and was too young to take part on the
great steam rigs that once threshed the grain of this great land
that we live in today.

Back in 1947, I bought a 50 HP Case. I met up with a lovely lady
and got married in 1950. My father-in-law and his bunch had lost
their thresherman. He asked if I would buy a threshing machine and
thresh out their ring. I bought a 36-64 all steel Minneapolis, it
had a 14 foot Garden City Feeder. I was young and eager to thresh
with a steam engine, needless to say I learned a lot the first day.
I was pulling a very heavy load and I was determined to make this
engine pull this machine. I found out very quickly that you
don’t carry high water in a Case boiler. I couldn’t use the
injector, because every time I tried, it would pull the steam
pressure down too far, and I needed all the pressure I could get. I
used the gear pump and carried the water level at 3/8 to inch from
the top of the glass. I had her hooked over in the corner and she
was doing all she could.

My Uncle Harold Forney of Surprise, Nebraska, and 11 other
farmers had bought a rig of their own, back in 1919. Uncle Harold
had run this engine for 15 years. He was my idol. Their rig was a
25-75 Russell, mounted on a universal-butt strap boiler. I grew up
beside this engine, rode on it and got to steer it back in 1936.
They cut it up in 1940. This grand engine had worn out two Nickels
and Shepard separators for them. I just couldn’t see why they
had to destroy such a fine engine for a few dollars. Because of
this, I had a burr under my saddle for 11 years. My uncle could
have bought the Russell for a few dollars, but he didn’t! Both
he and my dad said that back in the late thirties the ax had
fallen. The steam rigs were a thing of the past, and the combines
were here to stay.

Getting back to my own rig, in late July of 1951, my uncle and a
friend of his had heard that I was threshing out northwest of
Bellwood, Nebraska. They came down to see how we were getting
along. My uncle came up to the engine, looked over at me, smiled
and went back to the machine. I saw him step up on the grain wagon,
run his hands through the wheat, then he disappeared. I knew where
he went though. It wasn’t long and I saw him reach behind the
sieves, take out some chaff and blow on it. My father-in-law was
the separator man, and he and my uncle stood beside the machine and
visited for quite some time.

During all this time, the sun had gone under, and there was a
big black bank forming in the Northwest. It was coming over fast
and the wind had gone down to nothing. The smoke from the stack was
going straight up. The steam gauges read 160 lbs. The bundle
pitchers were getting in a hurry and had started to lap the bundles
in the feeder. The old 50 was sure chewing her cud, but she took
it. My uncle had come up to the engine, he stopped and looked up at
the smoke box. The paint had all burnt off, both box and stack. I
got down off the engine and he said to me, ‘Well, kid, I
checked you out and you’re doing a good job, but you could sure
use a bigger engine. You’ll burn this little fellow up.’ I
said to him, ‘Uncle, would you just happen to know where I
could pick up a h of a good 25-75 Russell?’ He said to me,
‘Well, no, not now.’ As he left, he said, ‘You will get
done before the storm hits, I’m sure!’

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